


like stars in a perfect night sky

by blindbatalex



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boston Bruins, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: People say miracles are only heaven’s domain. Brad has long known both people and heaven are full of bullshit.Brad is a demon, Patrice is an angel and unlikely as it is, they have found they make the perfect hunting partners. And then a hunt goes wrong.





	like stars in a perfect night sky

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for graphic depictions of violence and possible character death.

“Venison sausage stewed in the blood of the innocents,” Brad replies, wiping his palms against his jeans. Ghouls are the worst because once you get that goo they have for blood on you, it’s next to impossible to clean it off. Next to him, Patrice makes a face, not even subtle about his distaste.

The night is cool and crisp around them, quiet except for the echoes of their footsteps and the distant sound of traffic. Brad is--he doesn’t know if demons get to be happy, but the rush of a hunt gone right is coursing through his veins, and Patrice is always good company. For an angel anyway.

“Are you judging my cultural heritage Mr. Too Good For You Angel? Is that what’s happening?” Brad asks, his voice high with mock offense.

Patrice doesn’t even take a moment to reply “a little bit, yeah.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so Mr. Perfect, what is your go to comfort food if the finest delicacies of hell are too gross for you?”

“Ambrosia with a hint of golden honey and nectar of thousand suns,” Patrice replies primly.

Sweet hell, Brad hates angels. They are stuck up goody good shoes who say things like that and look like this even after a ghoul chase and kill in a grimy abandoned warehouse. Patrice’s hands are buried deep into the pockets of his black trenchcoat whose tails are billowing dramatically in the wind as they speak. Streaks of dust from where he rolled on the ground somehow add to the look rather than detract from it and it’s not a tonight-only thing either.

Brad doesn’t know if angels are created with a form fitting wardrobe that makes anyone who comes in contact with their human form swoon at sight or if they are all high maintenance fashion bitches underneath all that holier than thou humility.

He almost giggles at the thought of Patrice lounging on a trendy sofa in a silk robe and with hip glasses, going through an issue of the GQ.

“I am Patrice Bergeron and I am so perfect I only drink the nectar of thousand suns,” Brad mimics. He has a lot more to say too but before he can Patrice gives his sleeve a simple tug and points ahead with his head where two sizable human men have something - someone - cornered against a shipping container.

The unlucky person quickly reveals itself as a youth, down on the ground on all fours, trying to cover as much of his body as possible with his arms against the blows from the men.

“...doesn’t pay his debt we will break all your bones you hear,” one of the men is saying as he lands another kick, “every single one of them, one by one.”

Brad takes the briefest of moments to flash a smile at Patrice. They’d first met on a night just like this one too. Patrice grins back, recognition soft in his eyes.

Then without further ado, Patrice takes the right flank while Brad charges straight ahead and tackles the guy kicking the poor youth to the ground.

The asshole gives a surprised yelp and Brad has already climbed on top of him before he has a chance to figure out what just happened.

“You won’t if I break all your bones first!” Brad says with delight as he lands a square punch on the asshole’s face.

The guy whimpers and begs for mercy. The gall of these bastards never ceases to surprise Brad. They will bully and break their way through the world but they cower like a dog the moment they meet their match _and_ Brad hasn’t even shown him a hint of his true demon form yet.

“You have nothing better to do on a Saturday night then beat up some seventeen year old in this hell hole,” Patrice is snarling as he takes on the other guy.

“Language.” Brad bats the hand trying to claw at his face away. He lets his eyes flash yellow for a moment and delights in the look of horror on the asshat’s face. “I will let you know hell is a wonderful place and nothing at all like this.”

That is of course, a lie; hell is a hellhole, smelly and too hot and generally overcrowded, not unlike Revere beach in the height of summer, but Brad still has a reputation to protect. Patrice and the assholes don’t need to know that information.

Brad lands another punch, enough to concuss the guy and breaks a rib or two for good measure before he leaves him rolling on the ground to tend to the victim.

The youth looks at him with wide eyes. He is curled in on himself and tries to crawl back when Brad comes near, but he doesn’t have much room to move.

Brad raises both of his hands, speaks in his most gentle voice.

“Hey, it’s alright kid, I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question to ask, how can anyone be okay after an experience like that, but Brad needs to know if the kid can walk it off or if they need to fly him to the nearest hospital.

Patrice comes to stand next to Brad, having all but knocked out asshole number two. The kid nods—good.

“They won’t bother you again,” Patrice says, “we will make sure of it. Now go.”

He nods again, scrambles to his feet and half staggers half runs his way out of the lot. In an ideal world they would offer more help but two unassuming guys beating the crap out of men twice their size, in the middle of the night—it invites more questions and attention than either of them are comfortable fielding.

“Now that the civilian is gone how upset would you be – on a scale of one to ten – if I slit this asshole’s throat? We only need one to send the message,” Brad asks. He extends the nail on his right index finger until it’s as sharp as a cat’s claw and cuts through the air to mimic the motion of a throat getting slit.

“Please don’t slit his throat,” comes the buzz kill reply.

Brad pouts and tells him as much though Patrice remains unmoved on his position. Brad turns halfway around, towards asshole number one, and asks Patrice if he can break another bone or two at least.

He doesn’t need permission per se--has never needed it--and the guy, now wriggling on the floor upon hearing Brad’s proposal, more than deserves it. But angels have morals and stuff and sue him for being a bad demon but Brad doesn’t want Patrice to stay up at night over the fate of such low life either.

Somewhat to the left, asshole number two is also rolling on the ground, also in apparent agony. Patrice sighs. The guy is holding his side, which given how much broken ribs hurt shouldn’t catch Brad’s eye, but-- “Only two more bones,” Patrice says in defeat.

And it all happens so quickly really. 

Asshole number two completes one more roll and gets onto his feet with surprising speed. Metal glints cold and silver under the flickering street light. _After that we let them run to their masters like wounded dogs_ , Patrice is saying, merciful, gorgeous as always. There are runes on the blade and fuck--

That’s a blade forged in hellfire and will kill any supernatural being, shred their soul into pieces until there is nothing left of it. 

People say miracles are only heaven’s domain. Brad has long known both people and heaven are full of bullshit because the blade finds him and not Patrice. He throws himself into the narrowing space between the slimy bastard and the angel and manages to get where he needs to be in the nick of time.

When it hits, the pain is almost welcome. It burns the way it did in that first century after he died, his mortal soul burning and burning in the bowels of hell. It means Patrice is safe.

He hears his body hit the ground with a thud as if it’s happening to someone else, a sack of potatoes perhaps, watches Patrice rip the guy’s throat out with his bare hands in slow motion and as if through a thick veil.

The first night they met, he was coming back from a hunt, just like this one--a poltergeist that had taken up residence in one of the decrepit mansions and was bothering the homeless youth that shacked up there. On his way back, in an alley he’d run into two men, big and burly and cruel like all such men are, mugging an old man.

He stopped to watch for a single moment and in the next tackled the one closest to him to the ground. Of course, although Brad had no idea at the time, Patrice was coming back from a hunt of his own; he had seen the same thing and came to the same decision. So pretty much in the same second he also tackled the same guy to the ground which meant they ended up in one large heap--an angel, a demon, and a scum of a human all in one.

It took a while to untangle that one, although if Brad is 100% honest he was kind of into being pinned down by Patrice, the angel straddling him and shouting who the fuck are you into his face.

Too bad demons are never 100% honest he thought later on, though he never told that to anyone either. 

“Hey,” Patrice says now crouching over him. Brad can tell the exact moment he recognizes the runes on the handle of the blade still sticking out from Brad's abdomen. Patrice's mouth falls open a little, his beautiful face shatters. 

Brad was so scared the first time he died. He was human then, a boy of nineteen an he’d known what it meant to sell his soul to the devil. When he woke up that morning, exactly three years from the day he signed a piece of parchment in blood – his soul for his mother’s life – he listened to her whistle a tune as she baked bread and he knew he’d do the same thing all over again if he had the choice. But the woods were cold and the eyes of the demon crouching over him glinted a sickly yellow in the moonlight. Its teeth were sharp and its breath was foul and as Brad lay there, life bleeding out of him with every passing moment, there was no comfort among the ancient trees and the frozen night sky.

The sky though--it was alive with thousands of stars. They pierced the darkness in their myriad light, laughed and whispered. In the moment before he died, Brad thought--despite everything, of all landscapes one could die to this was nowhere near the worst.

“Why the fuck did you do that for,” Patrice murmurs. He is holding Brad now. Brad likes the feeling of Patrice’s arm cradling his neck. “Come on. You’ve gotta stay with me man,” he pleads, "You’ve gotta fight.”

Brad supposes he should tell Patrice something before he runs out of time but his throat is dry and his thoughts lie scattered like shards of broken glass.

A lifetime ago Patrice is laughing at the ‘dance’ routine Brad developed in hell to distract himself from the pain. _Two steps forward, beat your chest, one step back._ His laughter is infectious, warm like sunrise. 

Brad wants to hear it one more time, tries to tell Patrice he can’t believe Patrice wanted to have all the fun to himself--telling Brad throat slitting was a no-no only to rip asshole number two’s throat out with his bare hands himself, but it hurts so much when he starts and the words slur and tangle on his tongue. 

Up above, the stars are faint and hazy among the light pollution from the city. Patrice spreads his magnificent wings, covered in inky black feathers, and hoists Brad up, bridal style. As his vision fades, Brad takes one last look at him--his angel. Of all landscapes you could die to this must be by far the best one.

**Author's Note:**

> I could write more for this AU if there was interest tbh, including doing something about that ending because I'm pretty sure Patrice finds a way to save Brad. Just drop me a line and let me know (seriously though comments are my lifeblood as a writer)!
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr @blindbatalex if you want to come say hi.


End file.
